


the stars that lead to you

by zoemech



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff and Angst, Forbidden Love, Galra Keith (Voltron), M/M, Minor Character Death, POV Alternating, Slow Burn, War, but everyone shows up eventually, he crashes to earth and lance finds him, lance helps keith heal, they fall in love because duh, very keith/lance centric in the beginning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-08-01 20:18:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16291079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoemech/pseuds/zoemech
Summary: "It makes no sense, the way he doesn’t just pick up his gun and kill the guy now. How easy would it be to do it? He’s probably passed out again, succumbed to the pain and exhaustion of falling through the atmosphere. He’d put up no fight and it’d be quick. Painless, even.Yet, when Lance glances at his gun, he can’t move an inch toward it without feeling a wave of vomit in his throat. He’d gotten almost all traces of Keith’s blood from beneath his nails but when he imagines pulling the trigger, he sees his entire body stained red."[ In which Keith is a soldier invading Earth and Lance is just trying to protect his home; they (a bit literally) crash into each other and fight to survive. Along the way, love blooms and changes both of them forever. ]





	1. Chapter 1

 

What has happened to it all?  
Crazy, some'd say  
Where is the life that I recognize?  
Gone away

But I won't cry for yesterday  
There's an ordinary world  
Somehow I have to find  
And as I try to make my way  
To the ordinary world  
I will learn to survive.

 

**_Ordinary World - Duran Duran_ **

****

* * *

 

 

  
Keith doesn't know much about the beings inhabiting this world.

Other than the orders to attack their largest orbiting base, he's guessing there isn't any point in learning about them anyway. It's not a thought he takes lightly and if there's anything he wants, it's to fly as far from the blue planet as possible and draw the war away from their lands.

None of this is their fault.

Still, none of it is his fault either.

He grits his teeth and soars through the battle in the lower atmosphere with intense, frightening speed. His ship groans from a hit it'd received on the left port, close enough to the engine that it clicks and rattles, worrying sounds that make Keith internally coil. Around him, bullets and lasers create an open field of explosions. Some are blinding and he's grateful for his helmet, for the dark visor that protects his retinas.

Orders have long since been disrupted and silenced. His team leader has been slaughtered, destroyed by an otherwise primitive form of tech. How the Terran's are managing to push back so hard is beside him. If anything, they should already be conquered. Then again, maybe they're just as lethal as the Galra. Perhaps they share the same ideals, relying on pure animal instincts and cruelty to survive.

 _"Engine heat signatures rising, deploy to ensure survival-"_ An AI orders, voice automatic and robotic, _"oxygen levels depleting, deploy to ensure survival-"_

Keith growls and slams his hand onto the console, effectively shutting the damned thing up. He flips his ship over an enemy vessel and fires at will, watching the destruction that follows. If anyone was manually flying it, they aren't anymore.

Suddenly, his own ship slams to the left. Red lights flash bright and fast and his head bursts into pain, leaving him momentarily dazed from the new dent in his helmet. Smoke pours all around him, the open hole at the base of his ship showing open air. His eyes go blurry, lips dry, blinks slowing by the minute.

There's no time to do anything but hold on as he plummets right through the clouds.

If he lands, he doesn't know that he'll survive it.

All he knows is the dark.

 

 

★

 

 

The fight in the sky sends sonic booms across the earth.  
  
In the grand scheme of things, Lance Almas once thought the idea of fighting off some alien species was a cool idea. Like any young guy, he dreamed about being the hero, the enigmatic savior of the entire human race.

Now that the war has been raging for over a year, he wishes he could just go out for some damn pizza and sleep without a knife under his pillow. He scowls and holds a hand above his brows, eyes squinting against the setting sun as he watches debris begin to fall into the ocean.

For a long while, the fight extended out of his range of sight. Now, however, it's closer than ever. It doesn't excite him and there's no desire to join in, even if he does have a rather large gun resting in his arms. It's heavy and the metal is warm, his index finger sweaty on the trigger. An explosion rocks the sky prompting him to ground himself, making sure he doesn't face first into the sand by the wave of vibration that pushes toward his home.

He puts his hand down and brings his gun up until the scope is pressed against his eye. Like this he can see the fight with clearer, closer vision. He roams the sky, watching as another Garrison vessel is blown to fuckin' bits. It sends a sick roll to his guts.

It makes him wonder, for the umpteenth time, if maybe they really _could_ lose this war, like so many said in the beginning. If the invaders are gonna take over, send them to their knees in compliance, wipe them out like strong vaccines to a virus. He wonders if all of their SOS transmissions sent to the cosmos were for nothing.

He wonders if no one is coming to answer their call for help.

A burst of heat wafts to his face and he gasps, swinging his gun to the right moments before a huge ship breaks through the clouds. It's surrounded by smoke and flame, some alien insignia glowing and flickering before going out completely.

And, with another wave of heat, Lance realizes it's headed right for him.

He curses and drops his gun back to his arms, breath leaving him in heavy pants when he begins to move. The sand makes his boots slip but he doesn't stop his trek of for a minute, trying desperately to get back to his house before the ship slams into the earth. He uses a palm as leverage to send him sprawling over a dune, sputtering at the grit that flies into his mouth. He has no time to get inside his house, to hunker down where it's relatively safer than being in the open.

The ship crashes with a burst of sand and water and dirt, heat wafting right over Lance's head with a gust of wind so strong he fears it'll send his roof flying.

"Fuck." He gasps, holding his head between his arms for protection against loose shrapnel, "Fuck, fuck, _fuck!"_

The palm tree beside him bends and he gets even lower, until he's practically laying on his back. A window bursts and glass erupts, miscellaneous objects sent flying inside. His heart is beating a mile a minute, skin breaking out in even more sweat but he can't be bothered to wipe the drip that falls into his eye. He's too busy praying to every known Deity there is, Spanish falling from his lips like a torrent.

When the impact settles, he waits for any sound of a threat. Footsteps, a gun cocking, maybe alien gibberish whispering on the wind. It's not like he ever got to hear the first transmissions the Garrison received before all hell broke loose. For all he knows, the Galra simply growl like ugly big cats.

After what must be a full thirty minutes, Lance risks peeking over the dune. It's flattened a good amount but he still has to get to his tiptoes to see, eyes sweeping the wreckage. For the most part, the war ship looks as though it remained intact. It smolders but it doesn't look like it's going to explode, which is a bit of a miracle. The sand is free of bodies and for a moment Lance lets himself believe whoever flew the thing had been thrust into the sea.

If they're out there, they won't be his problem.

He's never been so lucky.

With a determined nod of his head, he pushes his gun to his back so he has enough room to pull himself over the dune, muscles straining. Sand shifts, making him yelp before he finds firm ground. He gets to his feet fast, brain switching from defense to pure survival.

If some crazed alien is in that ship, he has to be ready to take it down. To slam a bullet right through its head, knocking out brain tissue and blood. Gorey, but necessary.

With slow rolled steps, he brings his gun back to the forefront until it rests against his chest. When he's close enough to the ship to see each broken piece of metal and the splaying of wires, he brings the gun to his shoulder instead, finger moving to rest ready on the trigger.

What happens next is a blur. One moment Lance is fully expecting to find a corpse, to drag it from the wreckage and get as much information as possible- maybe even try to connect to some Garrison line of communication so they can pick the body up; so he can have something help him get out of this city. The next moment, he's suddenly knocked in the chest, breath leaving his lungs with a harsh whoosh. He raises his gun but it's quickly snatched away, the cord pulling clean from his neck with a sharp, painful snap. A boot slams into his gut, sending him flying several feet back until he's thrown to the sand, left gasping like a fish out of water.

When a new weight falls onto him, he has no hope of getting it off. His wrists are pinned down, legs trapped, eyes wide at the person snarling above.

The boy looks young but he also looks merciless, his light violet skin streaked with thick blood and ash. Black hair is covered in sweat that sticks to his face and neck, too damp to shift with the wind. He speaks in a language that is harsh and twisting, pupils expanding before returning to thin feline slits. His groin presses hard to Lance's hips, sharp fang-like teeth bared when Lance doesn't reply to something he says.

Then, like a switch, he's out.

His body slumps forward, eyes rolling back into his head. Lance is frozen at the feel of warm breath on his neck, unsure if this is some kind of tactic used to take his prey off guard. If he moves, he fears his neck will be ripped apart like a shark slaughters a damn seal. But the guy is dead weight. Completely, _utterly_ knocked out.

With a grunt, Lance quickly pushes him away until he's sprawled in the sand. He scatters to his gun, fingers grabbing tight before swinging it around to point right at the alien's head. A perfect kill shot.

Only, he hesitates.

First rule of survival: never hesitate.

But when he tries to push down on the trigger, his body doesn't comply with his mind. The boy's face is turned toward him, hair spread on a cheek cut deep by metal. He has no weapon that Lance can see and though he probably just tried to _kill_ Lance, it just doesn't feel right to end his life when he can't even open his eyes.

With a curse, Lance lowers his gun and runs a shaky hand through his hair. The sky fight is still raging but it's drifted toward the west, where the sun has just slipped beneath the horizon. Explosions light up the boy's face, casting him in colors of red and orange.

"Don't do it." Lance whispers to himself, already taking a small step forward. "Don't fuckin' do it, Lance. You're gonna regret it-"

The Galran makes a soft noise in the base of his throat, brows furrowing before they relax.

Lance rolls his eyes and sets his gun to the side, far enough from the rising tide to be safe before getting to his knees. He reaches out slowly, as if the guy was suddenly going to leap up and finish what he started. But when his fingers press to the skin beneath his jaw, all is calm. Lance uses two fingers to feel for a pulse, growing very still until he can feel the subtle beat. When it comes, he makes a split-second decision.

Does it make sense? No.

Is it smart? _Hell_ no.

But he doesn't let himself ponder the consequences of what he's about to do. He just does it.

Bending close, he gathers the boy until his legs are situated over one arm while his head is cradled close to Lance's neck. His head is heavy on his shoulder and his breath is still warm, though now the pants are calm and even. Rising to his feet, Lance doesn't bother looking back to the sky. The fight will rage until one side or the other wins, declaring victory before regrouping somewhere far, far away. The explosions grow to distant pops and rumblings, like fireworks in the summer.

Lance kicks his door open, listening to the hinges creak with overuse and not enough WD-40. Inside, almost all of his belongings on the walls have flown from their hooks. His boots crunch over glass but he can't put the boy down on the couch without cutting his skin open even more, which would just turn into a bigger mess. Lance grimaces and hurries down a short hallway before shouldering open another door. The room is cooler than the rest of the house, kept free from the sun by dark curtains on the window.

He navigates to the bed and quickly sets the Galran down, knowing he has to get back to his gun before the guy wakes up. Locking the door behind him, Lance sprints back to the beach, his nerves turning to a blazing fire. In the dark he has to squint to see the dark shape in the sand. The Galran war ship still smolders and he smells burning material in the air, close to plastic but somehow much worse, almost enough to make him gag.

Grabbing hold of his gun, he doesn't even think about checking the thing out right now. He simply runs back to his house and slams the door shut, turning each bolt before sliding a huge piece of metal over the interior. It locks into place, securing him inside. The rest of the house isn't as fortified but Lance doesn't really care. Like so many others, just the look of the door being heavily guarded is enough to make him feel safe. Sure, something could easily kick it down if they're strong enough. Or even climb through the window, like some kind of assassin. But the metal bar eases his mind anyway.

With a relieved, albeit nervous sigh, he quickly flips a switch to turn on several lamps. They buzz to life and bathe the living room in a soft orange glow, dim enough that there's no way someone could see through the curtains he lets fall over the windows. Similar to those in his room, they're heavy and light-proof, making the house look empty and dark as the night.

Once he's done he fills a glass with water and creeps down the hallway with careful, timid steps. Floorboards creak beneath his weight, making him wince. In the silence every little noise sounds much too loud. He turns the knob to the bedroom door slow as a snail, knowing if he pushes just a tad too hard, it will click open. It's a shitty excuse for a lock but it always fooled his siblings, which resulted in a huge fight once they found out.

The door doesn't make any sound and for that, he's grateful. He peeks into the room and spots a dark figure still settled on the bed, looking as though he hadn't moved an inch. Lance's shoulders sag as he slowly enters, making sure to keep quiet before setting the glass on the beside table. He grabs a clean shirt and pants, knowing it'd be idiotic to shower but he'll be damned if he stews in dirty, sweaty clothes.

Glancing back only once before leaving, Lance makes sure the guy isn't suddenly staring at him in the dark. It's a scary thought, one that makes him shudder and feel a tad nauseous.

When the door clicks shut, he can't get away fast enough.

 

 

★

 

Growing up, Lance hated chores.

He'd groan and complain while washing dishes or scrubbing the toilet, making annoying comments and effectively pissing his entire family off. Always, he just wanted to be outside. When he was diving beneath the blue waves or taking his skateboard along winding coastal roads, he'd feel utterly free. And when he got older, that skateboard turned into a car and he'd fly down the highway, wind whipping through his hair.

Now, there's a strange sort of freedom in cleaning a house that has otherwise been abandoned. It's no longer a chore so much as a taking back of pride, all so he can place his hands on his hips and think: _Yeah, this is my home. Beautiful, ain't it?_

After sweeping the glass from the floor and replacing pictures on the walls, Lance scrubs at his kitchen counter with a bit too much force. His arm is aching but he blames that more on the aggressive alien in his bedroom than the rag spinning circles on granite. When he deems it shiny enough, he tosses the rag into the small laundry bin by the stove and moves back to the living room, fingers twitching toward his old guitar.

Instead, he reaches for his gun.

Settling it in his hands, he grabs an old fold out chair and slides it to the hall before taking a seat. Though it's been quiet for a few hours there's no denying the thump he heard a several minutes ago. At first he assumed it was something on the roof, maybe a lone piece of debris that was blown by the wind. But when the thump came again, he jumped and stopped his cleaning, eyes flying to the sound.

Now, he waits.

It's only a matter of time, really. He hadn't tied the guy up and if he were in a situation like this, there's no doubt he'd try to run. Or, maybe, kill.

He takes a deep, settling breath. Whatever happens now, he knows it'll be his problem _and_ his fault.

In the end, he'll deal with it and worry about the emotional baggage later.

Eventually, there is a telltale click. It makes Lance tense, his jaw ticking and his hand tightening on the butt of his gun. There's no light that pours into the hallway because Lance figured he'd have the advantage if the guy can't see. He thought it was a smart plan, if he were being honest.

What he _didn't_ expect was for the guy to _glow_. Or, rather, for that glow to be his eyes. When he rounds the corner, Lance is immediately drawn to the bright yellow of his iris's. They travel from a picture on the wall to Lance himself, slow and calculating. Lance stands slowly, as if the Galran were some rabid animal in need of capturing.

Unlike animals, the alien is smart as hell. Lance can tell by the way his eyes flicker from Lance's gun to his thick soled boots, from the light of the living room to the windows and barred front door. But whereas Lance is healthy as a horse, the Galran has a major disadvantage.

He's limping, one hand pressed hard to his ribs while the other finds stability on the wall. His cheek is covered in dried blood but what drips from his fingers is wet, splattering to the ground.

 _"Rveptis kras tik livisp."_ He says, voice low and guttural from pain.

"I don't understand." Lance says, shifting on his feet. He holds his gun close, heart beating hard in his chest.

The boy hisses but it's cut short, a gasp quickly falling from his lips. His face breaks out in a sweat, cheeks looking an even paler violet than when Lance brought him in from the beach.

With a snarl, he tries again. Only this time the words aren't indecipherable. While his accent is thick as hell, there's no denying the question.

"Why am I alive?"

Lance gulps, "Maybe 'cause I saved your life?" He glances at the wound in his side, "But you won't be for long, I'm guessing."

The boy falters and without another thought Lance is racing forward, gun left on the chair. A hiss is thrown in his face but they both know if the Galran were to attack now, Lance would most definitely win. The guy is weak from blood loss, his purple hands shaking along with his legs. Lance quickly braces his body with an arm, his other hand grabbing hold of the boy's wrist.

They head back to the bedroom in silence but the Galran's breathing is harsh, his face warping in pain. Lance leads him to the bed and he sits in a huff, arms wrapping tight around his own waist. It looks like he's absentmindedly trying to protect himself, to ward Lance from touching him again.

"It needs to be cleaned." Lance nods toward the wound, "Probably needs stitches too-"

"Bring me the flame, I can do it myself."

Lance furrows his brows, "Flame?"

"Flame and metal, any kind." He coughs and winces, "It will seal the wound-"

"No way."

The boy whips his head up, eyes narrowing.

"Sorry dude, but down here cauterizing like that is a last resort." Lance rubs at the back of his neck, "Well, amputation too. But your gash just needs some alcohol and-"

"Do it, then!" The boy practically shouts, lashes fluttering.

He looks several seconds away from passing out again, his entire body wavering before he gains his bearings.

Lance quickly runs to the bathroom and opens the cabinet, eyes scanning for everything he needs. He grabs a first aid kit and a bottle of rubbing alcohol, making sure to bring an entire roll of toilet paper too.

When he returns, the boy has just finished ripping most of his strange uniform from his abdomen. The black and purple material looks flimsy on the floor but on his body it felt hard as stone, almost rough beneath Lance's fingertips. Pushing his confusion and curiosity away, he meets the boy's eye for a split second, making sure he won't take Lance's next actions as a threat. When he receives a small nod to continue, he quickly gets to his knees and inspects the wound.

It's deep but no so bad that it can't be fixed. There's no innards spilling to the floor and no bone poking through muscle, two ultimately good signs. He opens the first aid kit and finds several swabs, hurriedly pouring a hefty amount of alcohol onto them before placing them right on the wound.

The boy hisses, entire body jumping as if he'd been shocked with live-wire. His hand twitches on his leg but he doesn't do something rash, like Lance considered he might. 

"The cut isn't too deep." Lance says as he places several wads of toilet paper around the wound, making sure to keep anymore blood from spilling. "Like, it's bad, no doubt. But I've seen worse." He glances at the scars littering the boy's body, "I'm guessing you have too, right?"

Silence.

Lance pours alcohol onto a needle, making sure it's sterile. When he brings it to the boy's skin, he asks, "You got a name? Cause I got one but I don't feel too great about giving it away without knowing yours first, y'know?"

Silence.

"I mean you speak fuckin' _Spanish_." Lance says just as he pushes the needle through, watching it glide smooth before entering the other side, creating the first stitch. "Which means you definitely know what I'm saying, so your silence is kind of annoying-"

"Do you always talk so much?" The boy growls, finally looking back to Lance. He'd been staring at the wall without flinching, let alone blinking.

"Yep." Lance picks up a swab to dab at a trickle of blood, his own brown fingers stained red. "I babble when I'm nervous. Is it obvious?"

If the huff from the boy is a laugh, Lance can't tell. He just continues to stitch fast, knowing how unpleasant it is to have something poking and prodding at a gaping hole in your skin. Even if that skin is purple.

"So, your name?" He asks, glancing up.

The boy tears his eyes away and mumbles, "Keith."

At this, Lance stops. He doesn't mean to but he does so anyway, shock halting his fingers before his brain can really catch up.

"What?" Keith asks, voice quickly turning to a snarl, "What is it?"

"Nothing. Just, y'know. Didn't expect that."

"Expect _what?"_

Lance sighs and gets back to work, throat suddenly very dry. Even before he asked it, he knew that he shouldn't. To know someone's name is to form a connection, one that won't stop the inevitable. In the end it will only make painful outcomes much harder to deal with. In this case, if they try to kill each other, he'd rather just kill _the boy_ or _the alien,_ than someone named _Keith_.

"It's human." Lance admits, feeling the boy tense beneath his hands, "I mean, who's to say aliens don't share some of our names, right? I'm no expert. But Keith..yeah, that's a pretty common name on this planet."

The final stitch goes through with ease, effectively sealing the wound shut. Lance pours a good amount of rubbing alcohol over it before patting it dry, feeling Keith's eyes on him the entire time. He opens a tube of antiseptic, unsure if it'll actually stop infection on a body from space. But he supposes it's worth a shot. Gathering a glob on the end of his index finger, he dabs Keith's skin with gentle prods, mindful of just how raw the skin actually is. When he's done, he uses medical gauze to keep the wound covered, safe from germs floating in the air.

"Yours?"

He looks up, surprised to hear Keith speak without prompting, "Huh?"

"Your name." Keith says, "What is it?"

"Oh, right." Lance places the ointment back into the kit before snapping it shut, letting out a soft groan when he stand, muscles aching. He picks up the roll of toilet paper and rubs at his nose with his arm, careful not to spread any blood onto his face. "Name's Lance. Nice to meet ya'."

It's ironic, the way he greets Keith. He says it like they aren't two warring species, like he didn't almost kill Lance on the beach and Lance didn't almost shoot him in the head. But once he says it, the tension returns. The air is buzzing with suspicion and anxiety.

"You can rest here for now." Lance clears his throat, "But if I were you, i'd stay inside. If someone sees you...they won't hesitate."

The silent, _like me,_ is implied.

He leaves and returns the first aid kit to the bathroom before locking the door, practically sagging the moment he leans his hands against the sink. A shuddering breath allows his shoulders to wilt, temple beginning to pound with the onslaught of a headache. When he looks to the mirror, he doesn't like what he sees.

There are dark circles beneath his eyes, two crescents that make him look almost deranged. His hair has grown several inches longer than he likes, the undercut needing a good buzz and though he tries to keep his skin free of acne, a few still threaten the expanse of his chin. These days, he tries to avoid looking at his reflection. When he does, he's just reminded of everything he's lost. The house is always too quiet, void of the love it once held. The beach is still there but it's mostly vacant, only the occasional person seen wandering the froth, looking just as lost as the rest of the world feels. Just as lost as _Lance_ feels.

In the quiet, he gives in to terrible thoughts. They swarm him and tear him apart, regret fueling his desire to punch the mirror to pieces. If only he'd followed his family, if only he'd ignored the desire to help others- if only's and what ifs plague him until his vision is blurry.

He knows it's useless thinking about it now.

To distract himself, he turns on the tap and splashes his face with cool water, scrubbing at his skin until it's red. He pushes his hair off of his forehead and tears his eyes away from the damned mirror, knowing one of these days he'll just have to take it down altogether.

When he opens the door, the hallway is dark and quiet. Even the thundering echo of the battle has faded.

With a sinking feeling in his chest, Lance knows he can't just go out and take a walk like he usually would. If Keith were to leave, he's not the only one who risks getting caught up in deep shit. It's one thing to kill an alien in times like these. Mostly, you'll be applauded for it.

But to house one? To, for some mindless fucking reason, help one? To heal its wounds?

Lance could be tried for treason against the planet. He'd never see his family again, never get to hug his mom or braid his sisters hair or bicker with his older brother-

He'd be as dead as those who got killed in the first wave of the invasion. He'd be written down in history as a coward; a sympathizer to the enemy.

It makes no sense, the way he doesn't just pick up his gun and kill the guy now. How easy would it be to do it? He's probably passed out again, succumbed to the pain and exhaustion of falling through the atmosphere. He'd put up no fight and it'd be quick. Painless, even.

Yet, when Lance glances at his gun, he can't move an inch toward it without feeling a wave of vomit in his throat. He'd gotten almost all traces of Keith's blood from beneath his nails but when he imagines pulling the trigger, he sees his entire body stained red. At this point, whether he wants to admit it or not, it would be murder. Cold blooded, no matter the fact that Keith's species has declared genocide on his own.

With a defeated sigh, Lance traipses into the living room and places his gun on the coffee table. His eyes find the old wooden guitar and before he knows it, he's dragging it closer to settle it in his lap. Sleep is pretty much out of the question, which is usual for him. So, to clear his head, he begins to strum. The notes are quiet and outside the waves continue to come ashore, unfazed by the state of things. He imagines he's there, floating beneath the endless blue and the burning sun.

He imagines the world, _his_ world, isn't going to end.

That it hasn't already been lost.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, Keith doesn't just magically know Spanish or any other human language. Explanations will come. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this first chapter! Comments are very appreciated <3 
> 
> Find me on tumblr, I'm [zoemech](https://zoemech.tumblr.com)


	2. Chapter 2

 

When Keith wakes, everything is unfamiliar.

For a long moment, he manages to forget the chaos leading up to this moment. All he knows is the white ceiling and a spinning fan, blue walls and trinkets that definitely don't belong to him. But when he takes a deep breath and feels a spike of pain run throughout his entire body, everything returns in blazing color.

He fell.

That's the most unsurprising realization, considering he knew the fight was pretty much a lost cause. They'd been taken off guard and Keith's team was literally blown apart and though he's trained to remain mostly unfazed by death, he still feels a sharp pang in his chest. What _is_ surprising, is the memory of the human boy that blazes behind his eyelids.

When he shuts his eyes, he recalls brown hands running gentle on his skin; blue eyes looking both savage with distrust and confusingly caring, two contradictions that throw Keith off completely. Looking around, he spots a glass of clear liquid on a table beside his head and two strange little ovals. Outside of his door, there is a quiet hum. Not like the buzz of machinery or tech, not like the overwhelming expanse of space or his own voice trying to fill the silence.

The voice is muffled but light, flowing and undulating with the strumming of some strange instrument. It puts Keith at ease even if his body feels as if it's on fire, each breath he takes sending a surge of sharp pain straight to his chest. He brings a hand to his cheek and grimaces at the cut a few inches above an already preexisting scar. When he brings his fingers back, no blood follows.

Keith wracks his brain, sifting through the database in his mind for the return of the human tongue. The chip in his temple is small but the druids made sure to keep it updated with every known language of the universe, most believed to be lost until the Galra stumbled upon them for domination. He feels words roll on his tongue and in his mind until he eventually remembers the boys name.

_Lance._

He refuses to call out for him. If there's anything Keith is good at, it's dealing with hardships alone. With a grunt, he slowly pushes himself up along the pillows, arms beginning to shake. But he's not scared and he's not helpless, if need-be he'll smash that glass of water beside him and use it as a blade. It wouldn't be the first time he had to resort to primitive means of survival.

When he finally resettles, his forehead is sprouting with sweat. He lets out a shaky breath and grits his teeth, mouth and throat utterly parched. Reaching for the glass, he isn't surprised to see it quiver in his grip. It's a short struggle to bring it to his nose, where he sniffs deep and long for underlying scents. While most other species fall prey to poisonings, Keith can easily smell anything seemingly unnatural.

Finding none, he almost sobs when the lukewarm water falls against his lips. A trickle slides down his chin before he gulps the rest, eyes fluttering shut as it settles in his empty belly. But food is the least of his worries right now. He just needs to get hydrated, to keep from passing out longer than he already has. He needs to get moving. Realistically, it's smart to heal and be at peak health before risking a trek back to his ship. But Keith has never been very responsible when it comes to his own body. He can push it and push it and if it gives out, he deals with the consequences before pushing even harder.

With a low growl that almost turns into a whimper, he swings his legs over the side of the bed and braces himself with both palms pressed flat to the mattress. Tears spring to his eyes but he refuses to let them fall, knowing it'll only make him want to lash out. To tear the room apart, which in the grand scheme of things is a terrible idea. The last thing he needs is to piss off the guy in the other room.

Keith has to be quiet, to rely on his instincts and training to find a way out of this house before-

The door opens fast.

Keith looks up from beneath his bangs, teeth barred mostly from the pain but also from the shock of seeing Lance standing there, face a mixture of strange emotions. _Human_ emotions.

"The fuck are you doing?" He asks, one had on the door knob, the other holding tight to his gun.

It's a bulky thing but if Keith could just get his hands on it...then what? He shoots the guy in cold blood? Maybe if he hadn't saved Keith's life that would be the case. But for the Galra, there is an aspect of honor that can't be breached when it comes to debts. Keith knows that regardless of what happens to this planet, he owes the guy a life; probably his own, should the need arise. So, with an annoyed feeling in his gut, Keith tears his attention away from the gun.

"Getting up." He hisses, wincing at the way his voice cracks.

Lance raises a sharp brow, "Don't you think that's a shitty idea?"

"Shitty?" Keith asks, "What else am I supposed to do?"

There's a deep silence before Lance lets out a short huff of laughter, the kind that probably surprises him just as much as it does Keith. Why is the guy laughing? What is there to possibly laugh about?

"You could just chill, y'know? I didn't get my hands all bloody and gross just for you to reopen those stitches."

Keith glances down, eyeing the large gauze taped over his wound. It's stained a bit with blood but it's the kind that doesn't continue to flow, placating his momentary worry. He brings a hand to it and feels the pressure of his palm.

He clears his throat, "My kind do not wallow on injuries. If we die, we die."

"Yeah? You really wanna stop breathing that bad?" Lance scoffs, "Be my guest."

Though his words are harsh, Keith spots a flicker in his eye. He glances at Keith's wound before clenching his jaw, hands loosening their tight grip on the gun. He mumbles something that Keith doesn't catch before spinning on his heel, the door quickly clicking shut behind him.

A moment later, he's back. The new glass of water is larger than the last but it looks fresh, perspiration already settled onto the sides. Something clinks inside and when he holds it out to Keith, he flinches.

"It's ice." Lance sounds bemused, "It keeps the water really cold." When Keith doesn't take it, he tries again, "If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn't be so sneaky about it. You'd already have a hole in your skull."

Keith snarls and snatches the water out of his hand, ignoring the drops that fall to the floor. He throws his head back and gulps, teeth aching at the frigidity. But just like before, it's so refreshing and relieving it makes him close his eyes with a flutter. When he opens them, Lance is still there, though his gun is now strapped to his back.

"I left you some pain medicine." At Keith's confused tilt of his head, Lance walks to the bedside table and picks up the strange little ovals. "You take them and they ease your muscles, basically numbing the pain receptors in your body for a few hours."

"Do you think they can work on me?" Keith asks, suddenly desperate for them now that he knows what they are.

His kind have the magic of the druids to help make pain vanish in seconds and stay gone long after. But even if this form of relief is weaker and short lived, he'll still gladly accept it. He's almost certain the gash on his side hadn't been just a gash; he no doubt fractured some ribs. And though there are no more open wounds, his entire body feels as if it had been thrown into a fire and crushed beneath the Galran's home-base warship.

"Only one way to find out." Lance says.

Keith thrusts his arm out, palm open and expectant. Lance drops them without touching his skin, pulling away fast to shove his hands into the pockets of his pants. Eyeing him for a moment, Keith follows his directions to place the medicine on his tongue before swallowing them whole.

"How long until this works?"

Lance shrugs, "If you were human I'd say about ten minutes. But you're not human."

It's a reminder that Keith shouldn't need. But the moment Lance says it, he can feel himself bring his guard back up. Because no matter how strange all of this is, the boy is right. Keith _isn't_ human. He shouldn't be here. In all actuality, he shouldn't even be alive.

"You saved me." He says, wincing when he tries to stand, "What do you want? Information?"

"Sure. You willing to give it?" When Keith doesn't reply, Lance smirks. "Didn't think so."

Outside, something slams against the side of the house. Keith jumps and reaches for his blade, only it isn't there. "What is that?" He hisses, "When did you alert your people?"

"I didn't." Lance frowns and steps toward the curtains, quick to pull them aside. He peeks out, blue eyes roaming the dark. "It's just the wind."

Keith snarls, "You're lying."

After a few quiet seconds the knock comes again. Keith tenses and inches forward until he's a step behind Lance. He peeks into the night, stomach clenching at the thought of fighting whoever waits for him outside. When the noise returns, Keith is quick to push Lance to the side.

"I'm tellin' you-"

 _"Quiet."_ Keith hisses.

In the dark, he has near perfect vision. Each mound of sand, every strange tree and low-flying bird; all is visible to him as if it were bright as day. His eyes shoot to the right just as a roof shutter flaps, the heavy material sounding even louder now that he's this close to the window.

When he turns around, he hopes he doesn't appear foolish.

"See?" Lance looks bemused, "The wind."

"You can't blame me for being cautious." Keith says. "I don't understand your intentions. I can't trust you."

"Ditto, dude."

A wave of exhaustion makes Keith waver on his feet and he braces a hand on the windowsill, nausea returning with a roll in his stomach. Lance jumps forward but stops just short of touching Keith, which would have ended poorly for both of them, he's sure.

"Like I said, you need to chill." Lance nods toward the bed. "I won't kill you in your sleep, alright? I promise."

Keith bares his teeth, "I don't need your promises. Wounded or not, I could kill you-"

"Yeah, cool. Whatever." Lance is already turning back toward the door, a hand rising to the nape of his neck. When he turns around, he looks pleased to see Keith plopping down on the end of the bed.

The most Keith can do is pretend that he's not there. That none of this is happening, even though he knows without a doubt that it is. This isn't some hallucination, some dreamscape that he's created to deal with bleeding out to death on this planet. The soft sheets beneath his rough hands are real, the moonlight filtering through the curtains is real, the rickety fan spinning circles above his head is real.

When he looks up to Lance, there is no doubt in his mind that the boy is also very, _very_ real. His skin is brown and his eyes almost crystalline, the curl of his hair looking soft above the slope of his broad shoulders. There is no flicker like that of a simulation when he takes a deep, filling breath. He doesn't smile but he doesn't look at Keith like so many others have before either: with disgust and prejudice for his half-breed nature. He doesn't look at him with blame or hatred for being the enemy.

"You don't make sense." Keith speaks aloud, finally feeling a flicker of relief from the pain that has been rattling throughout his body.

Lance looks at him for a moment longer before giving a small, timid sort of smile. "Yeah. Neither do you."

And then he's gone.

 

 

 

★

 

The third time Keith wakes, he does so softly.

There is no immediate panic or confusion, let alone feelings of danger pricking at his psyche. It's just him and the fan, the likes of which continues to spin. He watches it with hooded eyes, trying to keep from pressing a curious hand to his ribs. It's not healed and he knows it. But even if he is more rested than he's ever been, he knows he can't get comfortable.

Which, he supposes, will be easier said than done.

When he looks to the bedside table, two familiar pills wait beside a refilled glass of water. He winces and sits up, feeling only a minuscule tinge of pain at his temple. After he downs the pills, he glances toward the window. The light of the moon has vanished and in its place are early morning beams, all gold and pink and orange.

Keith grabs the glass of water and chugs while he shuffles to the window, letting two fingers inch open the curtain enough for him to peek outside. Silver fog lays thick on the ground, trailing from the house all the way to the ocean, where waves have picked up in the threat of a storm. He searches the sky but sees no threatening ships; none from the humans and none from the Galra, who would surely try to kill him if they thought he'd given any information to Lance. He adds it to his mental list: _reasons to get the hell out of here._

By the waters edge, Keith is drawn to a lone figure. It's not hard to see the way Lance bends to pick something up before tossing it far into the surf, his brown hair whipping around his head with the wind. Leaning against the windowsill, Keith takes a few more hearty gulps of his water, watching the boy kick up sand with his bare feet.

It's very lonely and familiar, the way Lance watches the sunrise. It's almost like a mirror to Keith's own solitude. The stars were always a blanket, one that covered him when nothing else could.

Suddenly, with absolutely no warning, Lance turns to look at the house. Keith sputters into his water and lets the curtain fall shut. Then, he's leaping back into the bed. It's not that he's scared of Lance seeing him but there's no way he's really prepared to talk to him again. It's not in his nature to keep up conversation, to speak more than he can simply observe.

Still, when Lance inevitably inches the door open, Keith finds himself being the first to speak.

"Have you lived here long?"

Lance hesitates, his brows furrowing at the random question. "Earth? All my life." When he doesn't get whatever reaction he's waiting for, he continues with a sigh, "Yeah. This is uh, my house. That I grew up in."

Nodding, Keith takes another look around the room. The knickknacks range from strange medals to seashells and paper; most of which looked worn from use. Several items of clothing litter the floor and not for the first time, Keith wishes he could wear something new.

"Why are you here?" He asks, trying to keep his voice level.

Nonthreatening.

Lance takes a few more steps into the room, looking tired but determined. "I need to change that bandage."

In his hand, he holds the same kit from before.

It takes no time for their positions to shift. Keith allows Lance a small space between his legs, just enough for him to lean closer to inspect the wound for any festering.

"No puss or inflammation." Lance notes, "But it definitely needs another swab of alcohol and antiseptic."

The smell is strong and Keith resists the urge to scrub at his nose. He watches Lance pour a hefty amount onto a rag before scooting even closer, until his slightly damp hair is close enough for Keith to smell. He doesn't actively search it out, of course. But when the alcohol burns and stings at the stitches he can't stop himself from dipping his head. Open sea air and misty rain meets his nostrils and he takes a huge whiff to settle his nerves, keeping his eyes shut against the dabs of ointment Lance places on his skin.

"You good?"

Keith nods, though he keeps his eyes closed. "Yes."

"It burns like a bitch, huh?" Lance leans away and Keith can hear the unrolling of more gauze, the way it sounds scratchy on one side and incredibly soft on the other.

"I've had molten metal pressed to my spine." Keith hisses, nerves jumping when the ceiling fan pushes cold air onto his ribs, "Yet this _alcoohool_ feels even worse."

"Alcohol." Lance corrects gently, "Yeah. When I was a kid I'd get all scraped up from my skateboard and pretend I wasn't bleeding just to avoid it. No way was I letting this stuff near my kneecaps."

The gauze presses onto him and Lance's long fingers soon follow, keeping one edge down while ensuring the other will stick. When it does, he takes a moment to put everything back in the kit.

"Skateboard?" Keith asks, heat rising on his neck when he hears the minuscule shake in his voice.

Usually, in the face of pain, he would keep his mouth screwed shut. Reacting to pain can be a sign of weakness.

But Lance doesn't even seem to notice.

"It's uh, a board. With wheels." He stands and makes very strange motions with his body, "You stand on it like this and use your other foot to move you forward. Then you just, like, glide."

Keith tries to picture it but in the end his mind remains blank.

"You wanna see it?" Lance asks, sounding unsure. "When you're better, I mean. If you fell off of it now you'd probably just hurt yourself."

"I'm an excellent pilot."

Lance flinches, attention darting to the window, to the wreckage by the water. The look in his eye has Keith shrinking back to the pillows, suspicion putting him right back on edge. One leap and he'll freefall, probably give in to his instincts and training as a soldier: he'll try to snuff Lance out like a flame.

But then Lance is looking back to Keith, face void of what had shadowed it before. "You don't fly on it. Like I said, you glide. And it's way harder than it sounds."

"I'm sure I could handle it."

 

 

 

★

 

Lance is making a mistake. Whatever it is he thinks he'll get out of this; safe passage to the Undercities, a fulfilled duty to his species, a sense of lasting humanity in a world gone rabid, _none_ of it will matter if he winds up dead.

He can feel the way paranoia sits heavy on his nape. It's strong enough that he's begun to subconsciously fiddle with his hair, curling the strands around his fingers almost every other minute. Even now, as he ransacks his kitchen for food, he has one hand tugging.

"What do Galra even eat?" He whispers to himself, rising to the tips of his toes to scour the back of a tall pantry.

Nonperishables are lined up one after another, though most of them are just cans of fruits and veggies. There's peas and green beans, red beans and black beans. Hell, he never even realized he had so many damn beans. The sight of them look wholly unappetizing and he just slams the door shut before moving on to the cabinet above the stove. He spots several boxes of noodles, seasoning, a huge jar of pickles and one box leaning against it, the photo of pancakes covered in syrup practically calling his name.

Huffing he reaches for the box and quickly reads the instructions, suddenly wishing his mom was here to help. He could just waltz in and say: _Hey, mom, wanna bake some pancakes for the alien sleeping in my bed? I'd appreciate it!_

Rolling his eyes at himself, Lance quickly heats up a pan and mixes together the ingredients, thankful that he'd managed to scrounge up enough useless junk to trade in town only four days ago. If not for that, it'd definitely be pickles for dinner.

"What is that smell?"

Lance jumps, a curse flying from his lips like a bolt of lightning. It's harsh and loud, almost embarrassingly so. When he spins on his heel, his eyes immediately fly toward the gun leaning against the counter.

"What're you-"

Keith skirts around the gun, not even bothering to glance at it. He's wearing one of Lance's old shirts and though it's a bit too tight on him, it's better than the bloody, ash stained suit he'd been wearing for the last two days.

"I smelled something strange." He says, eyeing the sizzling butter like it was going to jump out of the pan and bite him.

"S'just food." Lance grumbles before he goes back to stirring, "Do you like pancakes?"

"What?"

"They're sweet and fluffy."

Keith shakes his head before taking a step closer to Lance, his movements hesitant and mindful of his pain but still very curious. He looks into the bowl and takes a deep whiff, violet skin tinged pink on his cheeks.

"Smells good, doesn't it?" Lance asks, quickly moving to pour the contents of the bowl into the skillet.

It sizzles and almost immediately he's brought back to the way he and his siblings would crowd the kitchen when their mom would cook. Much like Keith is now, they would watch her flip meats and stir soups like a pro, her dark curly hair falling from a high bun on the top of her head.

When they sit down to eat, neither of them really take their eyes off of the other. Distrust lingers but it doesn't stop them from digging in. Lance's stomach growls the second he takes a bite and he can't help but groan, mouth watering. He leans against the counter with an elbow, sighing as he chews.

Keith doesn't hold back, either. He watches Lance take the first bite before quickly following suit, his eyes going wide when the syrup meets his tongue.

"So you like it?" Lance asks around a mouthful of pancake, lips quickly becoming sticky.

Keith just hums, the sound almost a purr.

And just like that, the tension shifts. It doesn't vanish or fade. But Lance is eventually able to look away from Keith and _keep_ looking away, until all of his attention is on his little sweet feast.

In a few hours, he could be fighting for his life. Keith could turn on him, the beach could be invaded; all could be destroyed at any moment. But as he takes another bite, he tells himself that these are problems for later. For now, he is content to eat these pancakes and pretend that all is right with the world.

For now, he lets himself believe it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What happens when you put two lonely boys in the same house? they make pancakes, ofc. 
> 
> So, this is a slow burn but not like...agonizingly slow. They're both attention/touch/conversation starved so they're both kinda desperate for interaction. Keith's POV won't happen too often but it'll pop up every now and then. Explanations for what happened to Lance's family will come. I had some trouble writing this chapter but I really hope you liked it!


	3. Chapter 3

 

In a perfect reality, Lance would be sitting by the sea eating berries.

In this reality, Lance is aiming his gun at a deer and wishing he had the guts to just pull the fucking trigger. Better than trading precious family belongings, he knows killing the deer can provide him with enough meat to last a long while. It means he won't have to eat soon-to-be expired peaches for at least another three months and tasteless canned lima beans for another five.

"C'mon." He whispers to himself, "Just get it over with."

He presses on the trigger but nothing happens: he simply can't press _hard_ enough. With a harsh sigh, he lowers his gun and stares at his hands. He tells himself that it's not like he's never done this before. He had to kill to survive after the first invasion and he knows he has blood staining his hands. But when he looks back at the deer, he suddenly doesn't see some enemy in need of taking down. He doesn't see anything but a creature who wants to live. Like him. Feeling utterly pathetic for the first time in months, he counts the times he's put a bullet in something for food. After a while, the numbers just blur together.

"Fuck." He mumbles, standing fast enough to scare the deer back into the trees. Waves crash in the distance but he doesn't head for them.

The moment he makes it into town he just barges back inside his house, making Keith look up from his position on the floor.

"I thought you were getting food." Keith grumbles, mouth turned down in a frown.

It's taken some getting used to, this strange relationship they've formed. It's only been three short weeks but Lance has managed to gain just an inch of the Galran's trust. Or so he likes to believe. But as Keith watches him walk toward the couch, Lance can still sense that otherworldly gaze like pinpricks of heat on his back.

Keith is always watching. Studying. Perhaps even trying to bide his time before doing something drastic. But on days like today, Lance simply doesn't care.

"Yeah, well, fuck food." Lance sets his gun down but keeps his hand close, palm spread on the seat. "Who needs to eat anyway."

"You." Keith replies instantly, "Me. But especially you."

They sit in silence for a moment, with only Keith's flicking of magazine pages to fill the silence. He's seemingly amazed by little things: pictures of kittens, cars and bikes and cityscapes, the small flaps that smell like shitty perfume. He leans down and sniffs one now, nose scrunching.

Eventually, however, he mumbles, "I could get us food."

Lance raises a brow and lifts his head from the back of the couch, "Sorry, buddy. But you're not touchin' my gun."

"I don't need your gun." Keith snaps, turning his cat-slit eyes on him. "I just need my blade."

Sighing, Lance runs a hand down the length of his face. He blinks a few times, trying to clear away the sleepless daze. He doesn't think he can be blamed for staying awake for so long. Wouldn't anyone, with a war experienced, trained alien soldier in their home?

"I've said you can leave like, thousands of times. But you could also slit my throat in a second. I know it."

"I could." Keith stands, wincing a bit. He's mostly started to heal but the pain still resides, that much Lance can tell. "I could take my blade and slide it along your neck, severing tendons and spilling your blood onto your shiny floor."

Lance grimaces, opening his mouth to interrupt.

Keith continues, "But I won't. I'm hungry."

"Your teeth are sharp. You could just eat me for all I know."

Rolling his eyes, Keith looks all at once very young. Less threatening. "You'd taste like shit." He says.

Gaping, Lance doesn't know whether to laugh or reply with just as much snark. It's rare that Keith talks so much, but when he does it's always leaving Lance just a little bit shocked. Even more perplexed.

"If I give you a weapon and you run off I won't come find you." Lance feels his stomach twist, knowing he's probably making another huge mistake. Still, he sighs, "But you aren't a prisoner here. As much as I don't trust you, I couldn't do that to anyone."

Keith says nothing, though his jaw ticks. He glances away, toward the magazine and the child smiling on the page, their face covered in mud for some weird ad. Then he's looking back to Lance, meeting his gaze head on.

"Thank you."

Lance shrugs, "Go when it gets dark. I'll get your knife-"

"Blade."

"Yeah. Blade. Whatever."

 

* * *

 

The trees on Earth make Keith feel a strange wash of guilt. It pricks at him as he walks beneath the branches, life sprouting in shades of deep green. He marvels at the mixture of sand and dirt, at the warm wind on his cheeks and the deep thunderous booms rising from the ocean in the distance. In a way, Earth is as normal as every other nature thriving planet. But in other ways, it is a sad truth that this nature will not last.

It makes Keith's heart sink. It makes him turn away from the trees until his mind refocuses, trained to finish a mission with no other thought but success. 

Keith is not very inclined to explore even if he knows it's the smart thing to do. He should be gathering intelligence, scanning his surroundings, hoarding information to help his journey to the find nearest Galra occupied city.

Instead, he is stalking through the woods, his hands holding two very long blades. He thought momentarily about striking it through Lance's chest. Straight through his heart, until he bled and bled and eventually stopped bleeding forever.

But as Keith sniffs at a scent on the wind, he knows he couldn't attempt it now. For all intents and purposes, the boy has saved his life multiple times: from the wreckage and other human's that could have found him, he stopped his wound from worsening and gathering infection. Lance has, for some reason unknown to Keith, given him a second chance. How easy would it be to run, he wonders. To slaughter those along the way?

And yet Keith pushes the thoughts aside, intent to find a different sort of kill.

 

* * *

 

When Lance wakes, it is raining.

Thunder booms across the sea and the storm drops heavily on his roof, threatening to lull him into another sleep. He groans and stretches on the couch, joints popping. It's still well into the night but he knows that's probably all the sleep he'll get for a while. It was nice while it lasted.

With a heavy sigh he gathers himself up and stands into a new stretch, bending his back and popping his neck. It makes him wince but it feels really good, enough to have him relaxing more than he has since Keith crashed into his life. And that's saying a lot. He glances at the storm outside, eyes following a bright burst of lightning as it shines through the curtains.

Looking at the time, Lance assumed Keith would be back by now. Sunrise is still several hours away but it's also been many hours since he's left, his fingers practically twitching on his blades in anticipation to get outside. Lance knows he should expect to never see the boy again. If it were him, he supposes he'd run too.

Settling as best as he can with the thought, he grimaces and enters the kitchen. He flips on an old radio and presses play for the tape inside, glad that his batteries haven't run out just yet. He lost the cord to plug it in months ago and no matter how many times he's torn the house apart looking for it, the thing is as elusive as a fox. For now, he can at least still listen to the old thing and hum along, eager to bring water to boil. He glances once more at the water bottles he'd been too lucky to have, always pouring them into glasses as if they could last longer that way. But without the proper means of sanitation and clear pipes, boiling water is an annoying necessity to make sure you aren't drinking bacteria that could ultimately end your life. Lance turns the music up and listens to the click of the gas on the stove, watching as a rounded flame touches the bottom of the pot.

Lance has always liked the sound of his own voice. And yeah, he guesses people could see that as a boy on the verge of a huge ego. But sometimes you just have to give credit where it's due and if he was blessed with one thing, it's the way he can sing without a hitch. He walks to the living room and picks up the magazines as he sings, tearing his eyes away from the perfume tab before he can do something stupid- like sniff it. He sets it on the table and debates just throwing it away, fighting with the fresh memory of Keith running his tongue along the paper as if he could taste something pleasant.  
  
But all too soon, there is a knock on the door. Or, rather, a harsh slap.

Jumping, Lance instantly grabs for his gun. It's habit now, this switch from lonely domesticity to lethal survival. Yet as he walks to his door and looks through the peephole, he sags with outrageous relief. It is no Galra in search of blood or roaming looters intent on stealing his belongings. Lifting the heavy slab of metal, he quickly unlocks the series of bolts and yanks the door open, rainy mist coating his face in seconds. The wind has picked up and in the midst of the storm, soaked and stained with dirt, is Keith.

"Uh..." Lance glances from the boy's hair laying flat on his head to his dripping fingers, where red stains the nails. His blade is recombined and sitting on his hip, sheathed and safe from the downpour.

On his back is a slab of meat, already gutted and shed of things they can't eat or carve or trade.

"Dinner." Keith grumbles, shifting from foot to foot. He looks up from beneath his lashes, face unreadable.

Lance startles from his stupor and nods, quickly stepping back to the let the boy in. He brings puddles to the hardwood but Lance doesn't worry about that right now. He just ushers Keith into the bathroom and tugs the meat from his back, surprised to find it wrapped with intricate knots of rope. They don't say anything before Keith steps into the shower, never one to shy away from being nude. But Lance darts his eyes away anyway, mumbling something about bringing fresh clothes and a towel before slipping back out.

When he eventually gets to the task of carving up the meat, he makes sure it's divided perfectly. This way, it will last way longer and he won't need to worry about shitty portions. He saves a large section and puts it aside, mind already striving to create a good meal. Looking at the time and hearing the violent storm outside, Lance thinks that it's the least he could do.

 

* * *

 

Keith leaves the bathroom and is instantly hit with the smell of cooking meat, his stomach rumbling loud. He shakes his head to keep the access water from dripping down his back, hating the feel of it. Growing up, training on different bases and sometimes war strewn planets, showers were few and far between. Yet when he _was_ given the chance to clean himself up, he rarely waited around for anything to help him dry. He wasn't given the luxury.

He enters the living room and looks to the couch, where Lance is usually sleeping or sitting, sometimes strumming his guitar or cleaning his gun. But tonight he is in the kitchen, reminiscent of the time he made Keith the human delicacy known as pancakes. His mouth waters at the thought of them and though he knows Lance is cooking the meat from Keith's kill, he can't help but wish he were serving up the sweets instead.

"What is this song?" Keith asks, taking Lance off guard.

He stops singing and throws a glance over his shoulder, eyes sweeping Keith's clothes before returning to the task at hand. Keith looks down, _feeling_ the amusement from the boy more so than seeing it. On Keith's shirt is a silly little man in a red and blue suit, his hand held out to release a string of web. Keith doesn't understand it but he sort of likes it- if only because the material is soft against his skin and the colors are bright.

"Uh, the band is Duran Duran." Lance says, "This tape was my mom's. She was an eighties baby so she has loads of these tapes sitting in her room."

"You have a nice voice." Keith blurts, not knowing what any of that means. The name of the band sound silly and even though Keith is curious about Lance's life before the war, he knows it makes the boy very sad.

"Oh." Lance turns and grins, shrugging. " Thanks. I know."

At this, Keith rolls his eyes and jumps up to sit on the counter, his legs swinging. He's tense for a moment, just as he always is when doing something new. But Lance doesn't complain or make him get down, so Keith is content to stay where he is. He tilts his head as the song changes, eyes following the movement of Lance's hand as he stirs something on the stove. Keith can't help but look at the slope of his neck and the muscles shifting beneath his gray shirt, the way his head tilts in contemplation before he adds something to the food.

For the first time in his whole life, Keith is amazed by another person. Though he had his oldest friend at his side while growing and fighting and he looked up to him endlessly, Keith didn't study him like this. Even he can admit that. He picks at his fluffy pants and tears his attention away eventually, unsure of the flutter starting at the base of his stomach. It makes him uncomfortable. It makes him feel electric.

"Is it almost finished?" He asks.

Lance snorts and moves to turn the music down, "Yes, your highness. It's done."

"I am not royalty."

"It's just a saying." Lance explains, "Because you're so impatient."

"I am not-" Keith stops, recognizing the tone in Lance's voice. "You're being sarcastic."

Lance smirks and turns to him with a plate full of food, mostly meat but also a pile of little green beans. Keith sniffs, finding the smell surprisingly pleasant. Lance gets his own plate and leans against the counter, taking a slow bite, eyes never leaving Keith. He waits and watches as Keith chews, looking both expectant and a bit frightful.

"What?" Keith asks around a mouthful, brows furrowed.

"Does it taste okay?"

Keith licks his lips and nods, "It's very good."

At this, Lance beams. "I'm getting better, then. When I first tried to cook my whole family thought I'd poisoned them on purpose. If I wasn't so offended I would've laughed."

Keith chews slower, eyes wide at the story. Lance looks at him for a moment, as if debating something serious. Then he starts talking again, gaze lingering on the way Keith unconsciously leans forward.

"My best friend likes to cook too but he's way better at it than me. Once, when we were in high school, we played this stupid game where you had to create a meal out of the weirdest combinations you could find in the kitchen. Shit like potatoes and chocolate, honey and hot sauce dipped cookies. His still managed to turn out better." Lance smirks, nostalgia washing over his face. "I mean, we got in trouble after we left the mess before going to bed. But shit like that is worth it, you know? The memories are worth it."

Keith licks his lips and nods, as if he understands. But he doesn't. Not really. Still, he tries to relate the best he can.

"My mentor taught me that the best way to send a person to the ground is to catch them off guard. I had a close teammate, the closest I've ever had, and when the time came for us to spar, I would always try to beat him by swiping at his legs with my swords." Keith flushes, wondering if he sounds as ridiculous as he feels. This story is nothing like Lance's. It is not born out of innocence and simple joys. Keith continues anyway, "It never worked, of course. But one day, I thought it better to catch him off guard without physical force. So I flicked his nose and called him a _Glarboolsnoot,_ one of the horridlittle beings that wander the planet Orniixu. In his shock, I grabbed his arm and flipped him, stealing the breath from his lungs for a full five minutes. It was the first time I had ever taken him off guard but it was worth it, to see his expression."

Lance stares at him, blue eyes raking over his face. Keith knows his cheeks stain with embarrassment. He'd begun to ramble, his voice lifting an octave as he recalled the trick. He looks down, feeling almost ashamed.

But then Lance is laughing, a loud sound that momentarily drowns out the music. Keith snaps his head up, something sparking in his chest. Excitement? Pride that he'd received such a reaction? He isn't very sure.

Lance puts his plate on the counter and rests a hand beside Keith, still snickering at the scene no doubt playing in his head. But Keith just gulps, feeling the heat of him against his legs. Knowing without looking that his hand is mere inches from Keith's own, close enough to touch if he wanted to shift in the direction.

" _Glarboolsnoot?_ That's wack, man." Lance shakes his head and smiles, eyes creasing at the corners. 

"Wack." Keith repeats, but Lance just laughs harder, his eyes becoming damp with tears.

From the look on Lance's face, Keith assumes the tears aren't from sadness or pain. It is just another contradiction he finds in the boy, one that leaves him with more and more questions. Though looking at the droop of his shoulders and the way he walks to the couch to rest, still a bit tense but not so cautious about turning his back to the enemy, Keith knows he can't bombard him with questions now.

Well, other than one.

"Your mother's eighties music." He starts, bringing his food with him as he sits cross-legged on the floor, still not particularly fond of the soft cushions, "Do they all sound like this Duran Duran?"

 

* * *

 

  
Later that night, as the rain returns to the sea and the sky begins to brighten with a new dawn, Keith lays on top of the blankets in bed. His eyes grow hooded but he recalls the way Lance moved his head and shoulders to the music in the living room and he tries to mimic the action, though he feels like a fraud. Still, he bobs his head a bit and hits replay, finding that he rather enjoys the man's voice as he sings through the speakers covering Keith's ears. When Lance had given him the little portable box and several tapes to go with it, Keith tried to keep from thinking of hoarding them, of hiding them and becoming selfish.

"I've owned very little belongings in my life." He'd admitted, throat tight.

Lance had given him another strange look, his eyes growing soft, his tooth biting into his bottom lip. With a nod, he put on a smile and motioned toward the box, saying, "Well, you own that now. Take care of it, though. It's important to me."

Now, Keith cradles the object like one would a cub or something equally fragile. And just before he goes to sleep, he feels his throat work in a hum, a bit scratchy but there all the same. Mouth quirked, he sinks beneath the blankets and keeps the headphones on, settling in to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs that I pictured playing throughout the chapter: 
> 
> [Ordinary World](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vm5iK_tNWAg) by Duran Duran  
> [A View to a Kill](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AJAGgtWwvSk) by Duran Duran
> 
> :)  
> Sorry for the wait!! I know it's been a while. This chapter wasn't very plot heavy other than some bonding, which is just as important imo. But don't worry, later chapters will be full of action and all that.


End file.
